Bloodied Justice
by shadow-wrath8
Summary: M!Mage!Hawke is not quite the noble Champion he parades as. When the Chantry gets blown up, some unexpected and gruesome revelations come to the light - betrayal, blood magic and a ruthless charge to power. Contains torture and sadism in future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_«Damn you, Anders. You no-good, abominable bastard... Demon fodder, that's what you really are»_

The destruction was magnificent, and he hated the healer mage for it. Rocks that had seen the centuries of Kirkwall roll by, salted to the core by the sea wind, spattered with blood by the dozens of generation that claimed to seize the Tevinter heritage – now, for a moment, they levitated in the air, sharp black shards against the reddish mist of dawn, embroiled in magical fire... disconnected, disarrayed, moaning with strain and helplessness. He couldn't hear the screams of people, the Chanters that were now too rotating in the mesh of marble, iron, their own furniture and broken bronze statues, burning alive – and grinded in the explosion. He imagined he could hear them, though. Pleading to the Maker to stop this madness, to ease their pain as they were torn limb by limb.

The ground shook as the violent magenta glow of the lyrium explosive traveled across the city, mercilessly highlighting the utter desecration of the Chantry. Like a rod of light piercing the ground from heavens, the pulse of magic kept the remains of swirling around it, when it suddenly collapsed.

The shockwave nearly knocked them off their feet and Hawke suddenly realized he was covered in dust and ashes, sent by the explosion. Without any of the previous, ethereal grace, the building collapsed into itself, the whine of the breaking stone echoing against the flaming streets. The crater left only the jagged teeth of the first two floors standing up, barely visible above the roofs of the surrounding slums.

He wished he could've watched it longer, but when Ged lowered his gaze, he met Meredith's icy blue stare. She was looking at him. At him, not at Anders who know stood beside him with a stoic contorted face of someone sentenced to execution. He suddenly realized that he didn't know what kind of expression was on his face, and hurriedly let his jaw hang slack with bewilderment.

Meredith seemed happy and on the edge, bristling like a Mabari in the fighting pit with the nervous anticipation of the bloodshed to be. Her apparent joy of being proved right, which she immediately expressed was reflected in Orsino's fear. Oh, Hawke thought, observing as the elf's ears lowered, the inhumanely wide-cut eyes filling with the black, paralyzing ink of fear, he well knows what this would lead to. No doubt, he had the visions of bloodshed crossing his mind at that point. He too, had them – but, and he couldn't confess it to the others, it hadn't brought him the same dread that he read on the First Enchanters pale face.

"The Grand Cleric, killed by a Mage... If this doesn't call for the Right of Annulment, then I don't know what more atrocities committed by the magi kind would be sufficient for you all to open your eyes to the threat!"

Hawke listened to her ravings absentmindedly, his consciousness focused on the unsheathed swords of the templars behind the Knight-Commanders back, their teeny-tiny steps as they positioned themselves in a semicircle, ready to cut in when prompted. He was focused on Anders, noting how the healers skin became demarcated by the blackened glow of veins, the first signal that Justice was on the rise... And his own brothers eyes, cold and condemning in the slit of a worn-out templar helmet.

But most of all, he was concentrated on trying to find a way out of this all. Anders, the bastard idealistic Anders. He spoiled the Champions game... and yet, when the latter pompously announced that this all had been done to erase the notion of compromise, he couldn't help but admit his right.

It was satisfying. Not how he planned it...but still, enthralling. Now, what needed to be done, is turn this act of despicable rebellion in his favor. Would the others back him up? The decision had been made, but he could at least try to dance around it diplomatically. Damage control, that's what the Order calls it?

Ged smirked to himself. He've lost the throne, the possibility of it ran dry months ago when he was told it was impossible to attain the Viscounts seat without templar support – and even the web of lies and trickery that he weaved around the Divine proved to be inefficient. Every time he had to do their bidding, he had to suppress bile lurching inside of him, yet in vain stubbornness proceeded with the plan... Time to get rid of such dreams, with the Chantry lying in ruins and a crazed templar bitch announcing him a criminal in front of her cronies.  
>If it came to a stand-down, he can as well get enjoyment out of it. Shed all the skin of pretense and awkward diplomacy, bare his true nature. Wasn't it what he dreamed about for all these years, since they've hidden from the Order back in Lothering? To stop groveling at the feet of the unworthy?<p>

"The Right of Annulment?" The Champion smirked. "And you have the audacity to ask me to help you, even after you condemn me to the same fate?"  
>Hawke's gauntet, set aflame by a cold fire, accusingly thrust in Meredith's direction.<br>"I'm a mage too. It takes a foolish, ale-rotten templar's brain to form an idea that I'd go against my kin and help you slaughter them for something just one did..." He cast a venomous stare at Anders, the latter cowering and almost shrinking a bit under it, before turning back to the fuming Knight-Commander. "What do you think, that afterwards I'll just bow to your rotten Order and offer my forehead to be branded like cattle?"

"No... But if you chose to be defeated like the rest of this pathetic Circle lot-"  
>"Defeated? I think not. I do think that your days of running Kirkwall into a smoldering dead end are over." He glanced back at Anders. "And I also think that your days of "controlling" magic are over as well."<p>

Hawke's staff was drawn. He slipped into a defensive stance, crouched and low to the ground. It seemed that Meredith, after all, had infected him with the itch of a brawl – he no longer gawked at the ruined Chantry, but felt the rising bloodlust. Maker's crapped pants, it was all Anders' fault. Instead of his, Hawke's insidious approach, all the tension came into the open, a dangerous bet that was placed without his consent. Behind his back, he could hear Fenris moaning in his low, gruff and boringly discontent voice about mages – complaining to Aveline about his predicament. Varric chimed in, talking to him, calling to reason with a dab of badly placed jokes he barely registered. And only Merill offered nothing, but the most needed – a slight touch to his shoulder, encouraging enough, yet discreet. As she – they – have always been.

The templars were on the edge too, swords rising and twirling, as they calculated the better tactic for the attack. The stench of lyrium grew stronger, as Hawke noticed some knights empty vials into their throats. With a rustle of metal against metal, Carver took his barrel-shaped helmet off, and pushing his comrades aside, got to the front of the forming circle, the scowl on his face just further accentuating the dark irony of the confrontation.

"Oh, if it isn't my ever vigilant brother, Carver!" The acid mockery in Hawke's tone for a moment splashed over the young templar, making him step back, but he regained his composure. "Came to talk his idiotic apostate sibling out of a suicidal venture, and offer some... _tranquility..._ out of his own blessed hands instead, did we?"  
>The sarcastic, hurtful retort messed up Carver's line of speech. He gasped like a fish for the air of the first syllable, and then fell silent. For a moment, he took the time to look at his brother more closely.<p>

They haven't seen each others in ages, not after mother's death. Their differences became stronger then. The accursed magic took her life, and yet Ged still clung to the art, to his status as a "free man", despite the pain. He left to the Gallows again, to serve his duty, and yet, it wasn't enough to cut that part of his life off, to severe it completely, as the memory and presence of his older brother lingered even there. They didn't write to each other or speak in many months. Still, Carver was constantly stumbling on the marks his brother left on the city.

He didn't tell Cullen, or other Captains about his suspicions. It was the most he could do – be silent and pretend to be blind. However, when they found dead recruits, dead templars in the sewers of Darktown, he could swear on Andraste's ashes he recognized the magic. Faces frozen in screams forever, icicles imbedded into the damp flesh like daggers. Crinkled and shattered flesh from being exposed to extreme cold. Darkened veins and contorted fingers as signs of agony and tormenting hexes. Stiff, unresponsive corpses strategically placed to remind the Order that they weren't welcome. Carver persuaded himself that there could be dozens of apostate scum in the city with a knack for entropic magic and fondness of cold. Those thoughts never lessened the knot in his stomach, though.

Carver knew that behind the sarcastic, humorous facade his brother longed not for freedom and mere acceptance. Oh no, Ged wouldn't have that little, settle in for the small pleasures of a life. The mage wanted more – real influence, real power. Before, when he looked up to him, he thought his brother was becoming this ruthless seeker for their sake – his, mother's, Bethany's... As time went on, though, he began to doubt his childish ideas. Ged was a mage, but unlike Bethany, who was afraid of her powers – and unlike what he'd been taught – he strived not only to hone his magic. He took immense pride in it. He was a witness, a direct witness to Ged's hunger, that took him everywhere, from the Deep Roads, to the quest of reclaiming back their old estate, to the rumors surrounding the supposed claim to the Viscounts office proposed by the Champion himself.

Hunger for control. His fear of the Tranquil Solution.

Partially, it was what prompted him to join the Order in the first place... Tell-tale tongues spread rumors that he envied his brother, his talent and power, so with this move he chose to oppose everything that the older stood for. Heck, even their Mother would sometimes jerk on Carver's sleeve and tell him to cool down, not compete with Ged for her love or respect– especially when there was a clear winner.

That wasn't the reason, though. At least not the whole and sole reason. Truth, one that Carver kept buried deep inside him for his brother's sake, lay in the fact that he feared Ged. Feared that thirst and cruelty. Most of the time the older Hawke kept them hidden, but Carver knew it was all there, like the treacherous riffs hid beneath the rumbling waves, but which gutted many a ship near Kirkwall's Gallows. Sometimes, he felt, with sudden clarity, that one day he will have to see those razor-sharp rocks without the placid watery cover, and it will be him to guide people away from that dangerous route.

It seemed that it was this moment.

Ged had changed, thought Carver. The last couple of years weren't easy on him – the mage was gaunt, even more so than usual, his skin an unhealthy ashen color in stark contrast to his facial tattoo. The sprawling pattern, stylized to represent a hawk's wings, once a pale red now became saturated and rich crimson, as if all the blood spilled by the Champion was somehow absorbed into the ink. His eyes, earlier silvery pale, now were washed out and almost white, set deep in the dark bruises of his eye sockets, yet glowing with some sort of fierce, cruel joy.

He'd seen that expression before. These were the same unforgiving eyes he'd seen in the Circle, those of mages sentenced to death. They were the windows to only one thought: _"You think you've broken me, good for you. But you've not won yet. One day, you'll be in this place, in this hell, only it will be your head in the noose."_

"What about me, brother? Are you going to fight me as well? For these..." Carver looked around and waved his hand at Anders. "Treacherous maleficar? You were never in agreement with the Order, I know, but it's not worth throwing your whole life away for those who'd gladly betray you!"

A lopsided grin split Hawke's face in two. Carver felt the familiar oppression of his brother's rising magical power, heavy and leaden, unfolding around him like a cobra's hood.

"Don't you "brother" me, templar!" He barked and watched Carver's face darken as Meredith reassuringly put a clawed gauntlet on his shoulder. "Am I going to fight you? Well why the Fade not? Since we're having this session of truth and _sincerity_..." He turned and in a jest of mockery, bowed to Anders. "I can tell you that I've killed the servants of the Order before. But, can't say I shed tears over their dead bodies."

Carver's guts tied themselves into one quivering knot. So he was right... All these sleepless nights when he would lay on his bunk and pray to the Maker for his brother to be some other man than the one he saw, were spent in vain. His face drooped, freezing into a stone-like mask of disgust against his will, but he hesitated. He felt obliged to just try, to mend a relationship broken long ago, even though there was no real need to do so, not anymore. Could he forgive the mage?

"It's not like this, Ged... I can..."

"You can close your eyes on that? You betrayed me, Carver, the night when you packed your things and joined the people who'd hunt me like a rabid dog. You made your choice back then. Allow me to make my choice as well."

"Hawke, you shouldn't be so rash..." Varric jutted in.

"Be silent just for once, would you?" As if a beartrap snapped shut.

Varric complied, stepping back from the champion. The rude words hurt, but the situation hurt more, as Hawke's humor drained from him the longer he stared at the templars before them. What a twist of fate... Bartrand betrayed him, and now Ged and Carver had arrived at the same crossroad.

The dwarf shook his head bitterly. At least Bartrand had done it out of a clear and relatable goal – he wanted money, fame and fortune, plus his mind was already affected by the cursed idol. In his last minutes, when he was dying in Varric's hands, he regretted it, denied that much of participation in the decision to abandon them and leave the whole party to the Darkspawns mercy. Here, the motivations weren't clear and to be honest, Varric hadn't understood it in the whole intricacy of the deal. These were surfacer conflicts, mages and templars hating each other since the dawn of time, ancient dark secrets and distrust – he felt caught into a turmoil of an alien war, much alike to the time when the Qun tried to take over the city. And to think only a few years had passed since… They made a full circle and now returned

_Plus_, he thought, _I've other family, and Hawke... he'd be all alone_. Even if the two brothers would miraculously get alive through the chaos, Varric doubted they'd ever truly be brothers anymore. He didn't want this for his friend, to experience the pain he knew all too well. But maybe, to Hawke it wasn't that painful, which is why he did shut up, his thumb still fumbling nervously over Bianca's brazen trigger.

Heroes had to have positive qualities, any storyteller could vow on that one rule.

Varric was no different. He remembered how he'd once told Hawke all about the ridiculous rumors and fables he'd been spreading around and was pleased to see the mage laugh with him in approval. He liked it, to be painted as the noble, powerful and benevolent hero – which the apostate never was. To Varric, it wasn't entirely lying either, and they both enjoyed conjuring a portrait that reflected only a glimpse of truth.

It wasn't that Ged was a bad person, not in the sense Varric understood it. After all, he'd spent his best years around mercenaries and backstabbers, people who would've sold their own mothers to slavers for a bronze coin. His consciousness was dull to that, to Hawke's greed and violence. The mage did drag them out of the Andraste-forsaken pits of hell back in the Deep Roads, he did try to help the dwarf resolve his matters with Bartrand, even though he was as driven by vengeance as well and it was him who forced Varric into actually "disposing" of the man.  
>Hawke was a friend, no doubt – but a dangerous one. Varric, for all his cunning and experience, was never been able to tell what exactly was going on in Hawke's head. He smiled a lot, sure, but was it genuine humor or a predatory display of power? Tethras liked to think there was more of the former,<br>Yet, it was too often when Varric's hand froze over the parchment as he lost the trail of thought, his vision clouded not by the fantasy he was busily jotting down under the dim candlelight of the "Hanged Man", but the harsh, unforgiving reality. What was he doing? What good there was in concealing an image far from perfection – and maybe it did more harm than good, eventually?

What would Kirkwall think of their Champion if they'd seen him turning the Dalish camp at the foot of Sundermount into a lifeless graveyard? All of it, including the children, for just one wrong glance at Merril after that disaster with the knife-eared Elder? After the massacre, Ged didn't display any particular grief – the dwarf caught him diving headfirst into one of the Elvhen forger's crate of enchanted goodies and scavenging the relics.  
>What would people think if someone discovered a pile of templar corpses under the Gallows, hastily abandoned, not dignified even with a pit and a pile of dirt to cover them?<br>How would the Champion be perceived by those he supposedly swore to protect if they'd known of all the times he deceived various groups, promising help or taking up a job only to later massacre them according to his own indecipherable goals?

And still… They had erected a statue in his memory, a chiseled figure standing atop of a severed Qunari head, the flaming staff held victoriously like a beacon to the poor folk of Lowtown. The abomination of a statue carved yet another ugly scar into the city's slums, and Varric mused on how short people's memory had been. The statue, like all else, was just a fragment of truth. The nobles remembered well how the Arishok cut off the Viscounts head, but another grisly picture from the past was forgotten. One that showed Ged Hawke gulping the dripping blood from the – oh, what irony – neck stump of the severed oxmen leader's head, holding it by the horn above his angular frame.

Varric enjoyed the Champions humor and wit, something that they both shared, his ability to take even the harshest of blows in a stride and laugh about it, or extinguish it with a good old bottle of Tevinter wine, but even he couldn't deny that Hawke hadn't much going in the "mercy" department. To be fair, the only time when the mage exhibited any sorts of care towards someone other than himself, Merrill, Varric or Anders (aside from his casual, lazy condescendence towards the redhead Guard-Captain) was when other mages were involved. He probably saw himself in them, the dwarf thought. Running, hiding, denying their own nature– and growing hateful and tired of it.

So he had to create stories. Stories where Hawke didn't betray, squirm out of trouble like a slimy serpent, where he didn't go back on his word or get himself elvhen slaves. He thought how he'll turn this one around, if of course, they live.

***

"I suggest you remember your duties to the Maker, Carver." Meredith's grip on the Templar's shoulder tightened. He nodded.

"Your brother is right," came a deep, rumbling rasp from behind Ged. "You're trying to defend the mages… throw yourself for a helpless cause, when all they want is death and destruction."  
>"You don't know! It's not even the Circle who did this!" Orsino's voice cracked with desperation.<p>

Hawke rolled his eyes. Fenris, the foul-mouthed Mabari shitstain, again with his remarks. His teeth clenched and he called in his famous cool not to lash out at the impudent ex-slave. He fixed the straps on his gauntlet, ran a hand over his shaved head, then lifted his face up to Meredith again, an expression of inappropriate, sinister lust playing across his dry thin lips.

"I've been truly waiting for this, Knight Commander." He spoke softly. "As for you, Carver - guess you have the chance to answer the call of pride and try to finally best me. No strings attached."

His words were muted out by a sudden clang of steel, as the fragile balance had been shifted and the templars broke into a charge the very same moment Meredith turned her back to the First Enchanter and Hawke, the self-righteous smirk barely hidden in the shadow of her hood.

His words were muted out by a sudden clang of steel, as the fragile balance had been shifted and the templars broke into a charge the very same moment Meredith turned her back to the First Enchanter and Hawke, the self-righteous smirk barely hidden in the shadow of her hood.

Meredith should've known better, Hawke thought as the bladed tip of his staff slipped between the armor plating of the first Templar. In the corner of his eye he could see Orsino levitate for a second, then release a wave of a stunning spell, the Order servants scattering around, but unharmed. Other mages were beaten into an innate fear of templars, ridden with prejudice about their magic-binding and mana-draining powers provided by artifacts and the Maker's will himself. Unlike them, he was never a part of a circle, and knew how to fight dirty, carefully collecting books and notes even from the mages he had fell.

The hate pulsed in him madly, as he kicked the bleeding body away just in time to redirect a corrupting spell at another enemy, the thorny twine of the hex coiling around the thrashing templar and making him drop his sword, opening up for Varric's bolt right through the throat. He was vaguely aware of the other mages, led by Orsino, shower the knights with fireballs and brimstone, of Merill's presence as her magic reached him like a supportive vine, lending him power to direct his weapon into the ground, drag it in one long swiping motion to produce a glacier of sharp, long ice spikes that soon grew bloodied as a few templars got impaled onto them.

With another twirl of his staff, he smashed into the knee of a big, burly lieutenant that tried to flank him with dagger, and as the man collapsed in pain, placed his hand unto his face. The scream that followed ripped even through the din of the battle and the low hum of the panicking city. Hawke felt the rush of the lifeforce channeling into him as the templar coughed blood and remnants of his lungs into the mages hand, the blood seeping and twirling, feeding directly into his veins.

Distracted with torturing the man beneath him, Hawke found himself stumbling backwards, his jaw exploding in white-hot searing pain. The punch, landed onto him with a heavy armored guantlent, threw him off his victim, the spell tendrils cut short as he brought his hands and staff up to deflect a hard push from a shield. The templar who attacked him lost his weapon, but still was determined to slay the Champion, whatever it took, his breathing heavy and loud beneath the helmet.

"Fenris!" The mage cried out for help, cursing at himself for going in so close and personal. Sometimes he forgot, in the haze of battle bloodlust, that he wasn't exactly a warrior. He was fast and agile, but way too skinny and pallid to go bare-fist with an enraged and professionally trained soldier. The cry came out as a dry command, and Fenris obeyed. The templar rose his shield for a vicious downwards strike, intending to use it like a crude blade and slash the mage across his chest, but then, his gaze averted towards his own gut, where a full arm-length of a blade stuck out, drapped by his innards. The Order servant let out a shocked gasp, delightful to the mages ears.

The elf wore a sullen expression as he pulled the sword out out, letting the body fall to Hawke's feet. _"Such a good servant, a shame, really."_ The apostate thought with a twinge of regret.

"You should finally learn to pick a fight, mage" Growled Fenris, wiping the blade over the edge of his thigh armor.

He'd been a reliable bodyguard, for someone of his views and temper. Ged found it incredibly amusing that despite the elf's hate for mages, the servitude to them hadn't evaporated from him, even strengthened after he killed Danarius. The wretched creature was broken inside, confused about what to believe and do, and that confusion always led him back to Hawke.

The mage manipulated and used him possibly the same way the magister did, but rarely did Fenris stop to see it – nor did Hawke let him do it. Even Varric knew the reason why Ged kept the hateful warrior by his side, known his friends character and how the latter loved to taunt Fenris with his status and things the elf owed him, taunting fate itself. One day, he feared, though, that Fenris's eyes would open to the situation and he'd see Hawke crumple on the floor with a bloody hole in a chest like Hadrianna and Danarius did, but… maybe he deserved that. There already had been predispositions for it, and Varric shut the memory out.

Looking back, Hawke saw that the quick scuffle came to an end, the pavement slick with blood. He sought out for Merill, and sighed with relief at the sight of her being tended to by Anders, as the rock armor started falling of her, revealing the fragile figure beneath it. Aveline still glared daggers at the healer, her hair grimy and sweaty from the fight, but she said nothing.

Orsino knelt down to one of the templars, his head shaking in grief as he watched the man take a few short breaths and expie.

"No, no… it shouldn't have happened like this," He stood up, hand clasped firmly around his serpentine staff and looked back on the circle mages huddled beneath a merchants tent. "But it did. Seems like it's either survival, or…I'm sorry, but I fear we've not much choice now. Hawke, we'll go prepare in the Gallows, try to reach us before… before that dreaded woman does."  
>He cast one last baleful glance at Anders, who've just finished bandaging Merill's thin, twig-like hand, and with a swish of his robes, slipped into the dark alley, followed by a small group of shivering, exasperated magi survivors.<p>

Hawke motioned for Anders to come closer with his staff.

"We've got to talk. Now."

No smile, no human emotion reflecting. As if a Qunari had spoken.

"Not here. We'd want this to be private."  
>"H-Hawke, <em>lethallin<em>… " Merill's stutter seemed to intensify lately, Ged noted. "You're not going to, to-"  
>Her voice wavered and the rest of her she wanted to say got lost in a fit of typical Merill shyness.<br>But Aveline seemed to understand. She scoffed, looking up at the faint afterglow of the explosion in the night's sky.  
>"I can just hope you do it Hawke… Or at least won't leave it like this."<br>"You mean, leave the _abomination alive_. Mages always stick to each other, like flies to rotten meat," The elf snarled, his fist balling and raising in front of Anders, the motion all too familiar for the group. No one commented on that remark, not even Merill.


	2. Chapter 2

Hawke practically dragged the bigger mage to the dark alleyway. Anders, most likely exhausted after setting off the bomb and fighting off the templars, didn't offer much resistance. The dull, glazed over look in his eyes spoke more than he could ever put in words – he'd done his big, final deed and now resigned everything else to fate. His staff clunked along the pavement, the sound of it sad and monotonous.  
>Ged slammed the healer into the wall of a shabby old building. The push was hard, malicious – now that the faint afterglow of Justice was absent from the mage, there was nothing menacing about Anders, and that only made the Champion angrier than he already was.<p>

"In the name of Fade, what were you thinking, Anders? You know, I'm ready to agree with the others that you lost it," He hissed through clenched teeth. Blood that spattered him during the fight now dripped into his mouth, salty and tempting.

Anders looked away.

"I was thinking what I always thought, Hawke. You're not going to tell me anything new, something I hadn't told myself before." He said in a small voice.

"Then why?" A hard shove to the chest. "Maker's holy balls, did you think I'd not support you? I even fucking edited your damned _manifesto_, that piece of shit writing that you've excreted and expected to pass off as Magi rights declaration or something, I was with you on the whole thing!" Ged bit his lip. "What, you think I'd give you out to the Order if I knew?"

The healer shook his head at the other mage, an apologetic scowl warping the features of his face.

"No. No. I was afraid… that you'd want to help."

"But I helped alright! I was stuck talking to that Chantry bitch for more than an hour, not asking you why I needed this, and now you're saying that _me_ helping you was a bad idea?" The jealousy, the rage that he felt had mixed into the joy of seeing the Chantry destroyed, finally found an out outlet. Anders. Bloody Anders, he'd shoved him aside when it had been their mutual duty to lead the rebellion.

"I… I know what you are, Ged. That's why I thought that you're help would just lead to more disaster, not for the Chantry, or the city, or the people, but to us. It could… "Ander's flat tone gave way to a stressed, long sigh. "It could stain Justice."

"What I am, really, _that's_ the reason? And pray tell me, what I am? What would stain your precious Justice?"

Hawke leaned in close, his bony fingers gripping the collar of Anders' in barely restrained rage. He appeared calm, but beneath it, Anders knew it well, lay something horrific. His pale, shaved head cast off small reflexes of a dying candlelight in the window above and for a moment the healer's mind flashed with a painful twist of perception – Hawke looked almost like a hurlock in the dim, cold light, and the smell of coagulating blood didn't help the ease hallucination, the flashback to the days of patrolling the Ferelden Deep Roads.

The man stank of death and corruption, his breathe putrid and heavy. Anders knew how death smelled, and always tried to get rid of the persisting aroma native to his clinic, to scare it away with the clean odors of herbs. But Ged was no place. His magic was his core, and only but the most serious measures could change that.

Like what they did to Karl.

Anders didn't throw the other man off. His hand, however, reached out to the sleeve of Hawke's robe, and slowly pulled down. The other man stared in surprise, then too, looked at what this motion was exposing.

A network of badly healed scars snaking up the Champion's forearm, forming a pattern most sinister in its design. Ander's face crinkled in an almost sympathetic frown, his brown eyes warming as always when he'd seen pain and injury.  
>The other mage was terrible at healing. Hours were wasted when in the spare time the former Grey Warden tried to teach the other apostate even the simplest of spells, but in the end, they both surrendered. Hawke couldn't heal. The wounds oozed with partially crusted elfroot balm, the most primitive measure Hawke knew of.<p>

"Maleficar."

Hawke exhaled slowly, his fingers unfurling from the damp feathers of Anders' cloak, and he backed away, automatically tugging on his sleeve. He cocked his head, his white, immobile stare trying to pierce through Anders. The latter straightened his robes.

"And… you've known for how long?" Hawke inquired quietly, then grinned, slyly, as if nothing happened. "Also – look who's talking, serah "I'm consorting with Fade spirits and slaughtering people, glowing blue and talking in tongues". What a joke, "maleficar"."

"Since the stand-down with the Arishok. Or should I say, the stand-down with a thrall."

Hawke nodded. Understandable, if anyone could see, it was Anders.

From the beginning, the ordeal with the Qunari went wrong.

It was Fenris who've shoved himself right into the discussion between Hawke and Arishok, basically signing the former to a duel. Of course, the Qun leader left an opening for the soon-to-be Champion, but Ged couldn't back down. Pride and fear battled in him, manifested in the slight pulses of his left cheek, and pride won. Anders knew that he wouldn't forgive the elf for that, and he also had seen the smug look on Fenris's usually inscrutable, lyrium-demarcated face when the two stepped into the arena. Fenris wanted to see the mage dead, to be rid of his obligations. And he was certain that the apostate would be crushed like an insect. They've fought together, and it was evident who had possessed more battle prowess, the puny mage or the horned giant.

Anders couldn't decide if he'll be able to justify what Hawke did back then. The Qunari were resilient to many forms of magic, and the Arishok was one tough bastard, for it – naturally – was the demand of the Qun which he fulfilled. Ged's art had lied in debilitating magic that crippled the enemy. Even when he moved in for the kill, he'd make sure his runes and hexes had weakened the prey. In the oxmen chief's case, he would have to wait an eternity for all that to take effect, eternity which he hadn't in his grasp – plenty of time though, for the Arishok to demonstrate his mastery of two-handed swordsmanship. He knew that he'd be gutted, diced and leaved dead unceremoniously on the dirty floor of the Keep. So he cheated.

Qunari were resilient to many forms of magic. But they've kept their Saarebas in such strict control that they've lost the knowledge of what mages could do if left unrestrained and free for years. They've used them as simple, crude weapons, which they actually were – something that always made Hawke's and Anders' blood boil. Blood magic, mental manipulations – these things were largely foreign for them.

The Arishok didn't know what hit him when Hawke "accidentally" slashed his stomach with his staff's blade, when the fine, thin blood mist settled down on his gray skin.

The healer wondered if the Arishok even realized what had been happening to him till the very death, what did he feel when he lost control of his body or if he lost control of his mind too? And if he didn't, what did he experience when he found out that he was trapped, tightly bound in the confines of his flesh that had acted a repulsively perverted parody to a duel, a puppet and nothing more. These thoughts crossed his mind and Anders prayed, to whomever who could listen, that he'd never would have to experience something similar.

In the end, he'd seen the Arishok fight. For any other onlooker it seemed perfectly normal, but for someone as Anders, someone who has dealt with human flesh and its ailments, the slight, barely noticeable pauses, staggers to the movement of the Arishok were evident. As was Hawke's left hand, crooked and tense, not aiding to the manipulations with his weapon, but existing as if alone by itself, fingers convulsing and contracting like colorless worms, pulling, pulling on invisible strings as blood ran down it. Guiding the huge Qunari to his inevitable, and ultimately, staged death.

From then on, he watched his friend closely. Hawke was cautious. He'd only revert to the practice in the din of a fight, where cuts and bruises were expected, when no one would ask why he was elbow-deep in blood. Not exactly an image to commemorate the Champion of Kirkwall, but it was his only chance to keep the secret.  
>The worst part of it was that Anders never had seen any trail of guilt or shame reflect on Hawke when doing that. He did, when he lost control of Justice. Even Merill would crawl into her house in Alienage like a hunted animal, at least before she'd moved into Hawke's estate. But Ged? He apparently enjoyed the power.<p>

"Don't make a scene out of it, Anders. You've just killed plenty of people, and others want your head for it."

Anders backed away, as if trying to fuse himself with the slimy surface of the wall.

"Make a scene, hah. I understand, I understand why others… turn to it." He lowered his eyes, focusing on the pavement beneath, as if the answer was etched into the pebbles. "It's their last resort, last means to keep their freedom. But you, Hawke, of all people… Your _mother_, she-"

"My mother…" The apostate's lips curled back, revealing a ragged line of teeth in a pained grimace, "Could have been killed by a thief's dagger, a templar's mace, a maradeurs's sword, or a hurlock's bolt. Should I have started to shy from cold steel then? Should I start to push the idea that swords twist men into monsters, the moment they lay their hand on the handle, Anders? Isn't this mindset that we're fighting against?"

"I… I thought it was. But Justice, it didn't want anything to do with blood magic, Hawke. I couldn't let you participate."

"Wasn't it you who said that Justice is hard? That justice isn't pristine? That freedom is won through backstabbing and atrocity? And you even followed through that, Anders." Ged's voice lowered. "I at least tried to minimize the damage. To upturn it all quietly, nicely. Now you've just succeeded in making us look as the terror the Chantry paints us as! So suddenly, blood magic is bad, not as bad when it got your ass out of trouble, right?"

"I know. I've let you down. You've every right to be angry, but…" Anders' voice broke into pleading. "But I realized what you were doing. Better… better if the rebellion rises under the guise of one crazy mage blowing up the Chantry and defending our folk from the templars, than if someone discovers that Kirkwall had abolished the Order because it's nobility had been bound by none other, than what they fear most."

Anders noted that Hawke's balled fists went practically white. Ged turned his head back into the alleyway opening, checking up if their discussion was being eavesdropped, then focused on the healer again.

"Why didn't you give me out, Anders, if your… Justice." He almost spat out the word, little droplets of drool clinging to his chin. "Objects against it? Why didn't you fire up with your abominable ghost armor when you've seen me bleed the templars, all these years? Were too torn between what you hate more, the Order or me? "

Anders went silent, his matted greasy hair draping and obscuring his face as it got even darker, twilight subsiding before the riot-lit night that smelled of smoke and burnt flesh.

"I'm so flattered that you, or your Fade-cursed spirit, chose to dislike the templars more." Hawke chuckled.

"Justice… No, it was _I_," Anders suddenly stood firm and tall, the grim resignation gone as if it wasn't there. "I didn't exactly choose who I hate more. You're a friend. That's why I didn't want you to associate with it, to push you in a place where you'd have to demonstrate your…" And suddenly, this righteous confidence is gone. "Power. But it seems, it's still unavoidable. I just thought I won't be present to see it."

"I'm not going to kill you, Anders, if that's your call. You're not a martyr, not after this."

Hawke suddenly slumped, back to the wall of the opposite house, his face buried in hands. It was all messed up. He fought Danarius, someone who've surely dabbled in blood magic, against Decimus. He was forced to kill these people by circumstance, because it was expected of him, and the latter didn't want to come to any sane decision. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he'd chosen the wrong company there?

Danarius seemed reasonable, noble even. Like him. They shared much more in common than he and Aveline, or even Anders, he could tell it from even the brief exchange they had in the "Hanging Man". Not Hadrianna though, that one was completely crazy and beyond salvation. No matter, he backed out then, when he could hand the damned lyrium-infused elf to the slavers and… He dared not to think about the opening possibilities, too grand and tempting, a beacon for demons if he knew anything about them.

Then, however, all he could feel and think about was Fenris behind his back, too close, ready to strike him with his taloned fingers while he fumed at his former master. That fear made him clash with the older mage.

And to think of all the knowledge he could have gained? At what cost, though? Peace was unachievable, Anders was right in that. Other blood mages were too selfish, and the other "normal" mages would start running the moment he brought the topic to discussion. Even Anders was repulsed to the point that he locked him out of their joint venture to reform Kirkwall.

"All I wanted is to be respected. But no matter what I did, what I tried, I still wasn't. I could've saved a thousand weeping babies, women, defended a dozen of shitty cities like Kirkwall and still be treated like dirt, a necessary evil, a dangerous pet. Oh look, the Viscount got a tame apostate running around and negotiating with the Qunari! Even the Hero of Ferelden, one who had slain an Archdemon – people barely mention he was a spellcaster, and if they do, it's always in this apologetic tone, like if it's awkward, something you don't talk about in polite company. People assume that if you're an apostate, you'd do anything just not to end up in the Circle – and I actually behaved like that. Crawled like a reptile on my belly." He rubbed his eyes, the bridge of his nose, sensing the headache to kick in soon. "I'm the Champion of Kirkwall, but in the end, I fall under the Right of Annulment. So much for the fancy title."

"I wrote about that. There's no compromise."

"I actually edited that– and even Merill did. Remember?"

"So, you thought you could make them respect you, through the blood magic?"

Hawke laughed bitterly, more a choked out gasp than a genuine laugh.

"And you think you can make people support your cause through killing the beloved Grand Cleric? Not like I'm not happy the old bitch is dead."

Anders fumbled with the pouches on his belt. It was hard to explain the workings of retribution to someone as Hawke. Or his decision to leave his life to the whims of fate, however cruel it would be? He respected Ged, for his willingness to stand by his side when even other apostates turned away from an "abomination", but he had to admit that Hawke's motives weren't always just. That was precisely what Justice had been telling, seeping the knowledge in his head. The other apostate's decision balanced between a genuine desire to see mages free from the hated templar rule and a desire to rule himself. This conflict had been twisting Ged's very soul, and so, unlike his own straightforward path, Hawke's lay in fog and mist. In uncertainty.

"I killed her not for support. I killed her because it was the right thing to do, after all the centuries of abuse. I, Hawke. Not Justice." Was it really so? He persuaded himself in it

"I see. I still hate you for making the first strike, Anders. Don't expect me to forget you crossing my path."

Ged stood up, slinging his staff behind the back. His lithe, bony form, an inkblot in the reddish night of Kirkwall, resembled an old Tevinter statue, from the times before these were re-cast into a more Chantry-appeasing design. His face, once again, alit with a disturbing, unpleasant smile Anders came to know from the previous brawls they got into. It promised no good, and Justice inside him stirred, strangely welcoming the upcoming oblivion.

"I guess you realize that if we are unsuccessful, there'll be no…justice… but only us, our broken and battered carcasses dragged through the streets as an example, as the crowd leers and stones what's left of them?" Hawke tilted his head, beckoning Anders to follow.

The healer took an unsteady step.

"Thank you." He gulped a saliva clot, the dry throat making him rasp. "I thought you'd…kick me out, at best."

"Why would I? Merill's heart would be broken, Varric won't have anyone to call "Blondie" around and start calling me "Baldie" instead, and… I actually enjoyed the illumination." His finger pointed up in the sky. "That's where all of the sela petrae and drakestone went, really?"

Anders couldn't help but smile weakly too. As with healing, potions were another weak area of the other mage.

"Yeah. We're both liars, I guess." He paused. "Both murderers."

" Well then, I suggest we drown this city in righteous templar blood till it pours down the Gallows steps and head to Tevinter, Fade help us. Plenty of time to discuss our eschatological differences there, healer."

"Tevinter? Wouldn't the elf protest?" The way the healer perked up at the mention of the Imperium and the air of indignance at the mention of the ex-slave that Anders exhibited, cheered Hawke up. Perhaps Anders weren't a lost case afterall.

Hawke reached for his pocket, where the skinning dagger lay. As they walked back into the courtyard where the others were waiting for them, Hawke looked down to his feet, hiding the grin that pulled his skin tightly around the sharp, protruding bones. Hiding it from Justice.  
><em>"Fenris, Fenris," he thought. "You've seemed to outlive your helpfulness. And your own boundaries around me. But not the whole of you, of course. How did you say it Danarius said? Ah right, "investments." I'll be needing those. You owe me quite a bit, and you're going to return that."<em>

"Protest? Never, Anders. Fenris won't."


	3. Chapter 3

_A couple of years ago…_

His head was steadily buzzing, an angry, pulsing bee nest that some uncaring god mounted on his shoulders. Ged managed to roll over on his side, the sudden pain in his gut blazing up from his stomach to his throat in a wave of nausea. He vomited liquid, pale bile and shuddered. Mana draining was a bitch, Andraste's hairy mounds, it was.  
>"F-Fenris… Go get Anders, I'm… I'm hurt." Wiping his mouth with a sleeve, he propped himself up, looking around at the mess of corpses and disembodied limbs, then raising his head to see what was blocking out the moonlight – a tall figure encased in feathery metal armor. Fenris leaned on the handle of his greatsword, eyeing Ged with something a more naïve onlooker would've mistaken for curiosity, and Ged felt hate rising in him, directed at his own being for the begging, wavering whisper to which his voice had fallen.<br>"Aren't you a mage? You… things… can heal yourself, right? Also, when did I become an errand-boy, Hawke?  
>Ged knew that the word Fenris really wanted to use is not a thing, but "abomination". He also knows that the elf wouldn't be talking in this haughty tone that makes his innards churn if he, Hawke, weren't lying on his side, ribs broken and blood seeping out of a few stab wounds in his side.<br>"You damn well know I can't."  
>"Unfortunate."<p>

It had all been unfortunate. The mage spent a night at the Blooming Rose – all wine, and faces of girls he didn't care to remember, the sweaty writhing of tightly coiled bodies, so intimate yet distant from him. Slightly drunk, he expelled himself from that den of sin, how Aveline loved to call it, and unsteadily took a path to his mansion, down the repetitive gloomy tunnels and enchiladas of Hightown. Not far from the Rose, he stumbled on an equally inebriated Coterie gang. Bad luck was Hawke's companion. One of the thieves recognized him as a former Red Iron mercenary, and in their state, old enmities flared bright and strong. Insult after insult, Hawke also not being able to hold his tongue behind the teeth, the fight had broke out. The apostate managed to fire off a freezing spell at a masked, heavily armored warrior of obviously Khasind descent, and prepared to gore the other four, when a curved dagger sunk somewhere below his left shoulder blade, hot pain splashing all over his back and his legs suddenly giving out, growing wobbly and unable to hold his body.  
>The Coterie thugs cheered as the apostate fell to his knees, the handle of the dagger still sticking out of his back, blood and precious mana seeping out in perfect unison.<br>"Heh, Meros, good one!" One of the thieves slapped the assassin on the shoulder as the latter condensed into solidity from the shadows behind Hawke. "Now, let's see how much a damned mage is worth before we drag this sorry Red Iron ass to the templars! They'd maybe even throw us some coin, eh, men?"  
>While Ged was trying to get over the shock of such a severe wound, someone kicked the staff from his grasp, and dragged him up, holding the small man firmly by the arms. Through the haze he could see a lavishly dressed, dark-haired Coterie twirl a mace in his hands, the man's grin that exposed little remaining teeth.<br>"This is for Henneth, you piece of shit!" The Coterie said, and brought the spiked club straight into the mages abdomen.  
>There was a protesting screech of a thin metal plate and the less evident crunch that chilled Hawke to his bone, when he felt his ribs breaking. The mace-weilder seemed to notice Ged's protection, and ripped the plate out, belts and straps and all, throwing it into the gutter.<br>"Now, this is from me to Meeran personally!"

Hawke tried to brace for it, to wriggle out of the hold, but with no avail. The second swing saw the spikes penetrate skin and flesh of the apostate, the power of the blow nearly making him airborne for a second. He retched and with an uncomfortable clarity realized that if there was a third strike, there would be nothing for the Coterie to hand to the Order.

That's when Fenris stepped in, a marvelous deity of salvation that was so popular among Kirkwalls dramaticians and used widely in plays.

What Hawke didn't know, was that Fenris, had been aware of the situation since the moment the assassin had cut him.

It had been a lucky coincidence for Hawke that the elf prowled the Hightown streets that night. However, when Fenris noticed a familiar figure engaging in a shouting match with a few Coterie bandits, he decided to take cover and watch.  
>It was a new, and somewhat exciting experience for him. The apostate was cocky and self-confident – typical for his kind. In battle, he handed the hardest work to the others, preferring to stand aside and play with his opponents, rather than rush into the fray headfirst. That was so like Tevinter mages. They wielded power, showed it off, rained destruction on the heads of non-expecting victims, but were truly abysmal when it came to the real test of guts. With their mana gone, all they could do is weep and protest around his armored fist, terrified of death and pain.<br>Fenris felt the dishonorable twitch of contentment when he watched Hawke get beat up by the Coterie in the dead end of an estate alley, struggling and not being able to use his magic, degraded to a level of a mundane human being, scared and helpless. He could see his unbelieving, shocked face when Ged spewed blood and realized he couldn't stop his enemies, a completely new side of the mage which was much more satisfying to witness than that self-assured, smug look he exhibited in any given situation.  
>And now, when he was lying down, bloodied and asking for help – it was good too. Fenris couldn't find the strength in himself to tear away from this display of.,. justice? Yes. It was justice.<p>

Hawke was not really different from the magisters, he thought. It was dependant on circumstances. One day, they'll align in a way that would throw the mage to the regular practices of abuse and manipulation, harboring demons and becoming a monster.  
>It wasn't his fault that he sees Danarius and Hadrianna in every mage he encounters. Even in Hawke… No, especially in Hawke. Even during that fateful night in "The Hanged Man", he was bitter and feeling betrayed. The apostate hesitated, Fenris remembered. The dreadful, gut-wrenching half a minute when Hawke mulled over Danarius's proposal would haunt Fernis's sleep for many months to come. Fenris clenched his fist around his sword's handle. The mere fact that Hawke had "mused" filled him with rage – the bastard was actually deciding what would be more beneficial. Impotent, blackened rage that left a foul aftertaste on his mouth as it raised from the deep of his being. It wasn't a heroic rescue, as Varric would inevitably write, Hawke didn't free him.<br>Fenris felt how he just exchanged masters, the apostate and the magister's clash no different from the Magi Duel that was so popular in the Imperium, a petty wrestle of two wolves over the ripped carcass of a deer, and in the end, one of them claimed him as his property. He had said that it remained to be seen if Hawke was anything like his former "owner" when they had first met… as if he knew that the chance was high and his fears would be somewhat founded.  
>Was he bound to this fate? Maybe. But he could still appreciate the small gifts it had given him in return. Like this one. Fernis inhaled deeply and stared at Hawke, seeing not him, but every spellcaster that ever done him wrong, every mage that had twisted him into this damaged, restless being.<p>

The apostate groaned and stretched his hand towards his staff, lying a few feet away. It was broken, the wooden shaft splintered along it's length, but, Ged knew it, it could still channel his power.

"You're weak, Hawke." Fenris commented dispassionately, his eyes following the movement. "Didn't think I'd say it, but you are."

"Just… l-let me get this, and…urgh… I'll show you w-who's weak." Blood gurgled in the mage's throat as he twisted and turned to crawl to his weapon.

Fenris strode closer and stepped on the staff. The wood creaked and Hawke's eye shot up to the elf.

There was so much hate and fury there that for a moment Fenris's lyrium marks fired up with indescribable, immobilizing pain – the reach of Hawke's unfocused magic, the tiny amount that was left or begun returning into his body was wide, but it lasted only a split second. He quickly regained control, even though the glare tGed gave him was pure murder. Nothing special. A thought teased Fenris's mind that there was nothing noble or just in mocking his companion like that, but it quickly subsided under a suffocating wave of detest, reminding him that it was a mage, and mages deserved to feel the speck of torment he did, in his time.

To feel being bound by duty. Oh, how he wished he was with those Coterie thugs, how he wished he could cut the ropes of this loathsome duty and obligation, to beat the slimy bastard to this pulp and finally walk away from it all.

"Right. Your staff. Seems like you can't do much without it." He pushed the weapon towards Hawke, who've readily clung to it like to a lifeline. "I'll go get the abomination."

***

The memory rushed into him like a pirate's brew would, strong and slightly nauseating in it's roughness, hit his mind with the full force. But… why did he remember it? There was no reason…

Fenris turned his head and realized that his whole neck was throbbing with pain. He also realized that he was sitting with his back against a cold wall, in some sort of a…  
>It looked like a cell. Stone walls, no windows, a small bunk bed to his side draped with a ragged blanket and a wardrobe in the corner and a table that housed a few thick candles that lighted the place up. The massive chandelier hanging above his head was dark and full of cobwebs, certainly not used for many, many years... The elf warrior's eyes darted to the door – heavy, encased in steel, shut. And his sword… not pressing into his spine, not lying beneath his hand, but nowhere to be seen. If he was someone prone to panic, he should've start right-<p>

"If you're interested, we're in the Gallows, Fenris. Orsino is down below, trying to encourage others. Not just anywhere in the Gallows we are, Fenris. You're honored to reside in one of the Circle's cells, which was once occupied by an apprentice or even a Harrowed mage."

It was Hawke. The apostate sat in the opposite corner of the room, rocking slightly back and forth on a chair. Something about the completely relaxed look immediately disturbed Fenris, as well as the fact that he struggled to remember how he got in this place and noticing that there was an evident gap between his last memory of yelling at the abomination after it and Hawke returned from some sorts of private conversation and the current moment. There was something else. A decision. A decision to leave, not to get entangled in this war the both unstable apostates desired to unleash, a decision he had made and tried to communicate to Hawke after the elvhen Enchanter left.  
>But then why?<p>

"Look, Fenris. I know you can't read, but I'll read it for you." Hawke shifted on the chair and pointed to the stone carving above the door, the intricate letters embossed on the grayish marble. "It says: "Magic is meant to serve man. Isn't that something you'd agree with?"

Fenris, however, didn't pay attention to the Champion, too focused on trying to get on his feet, and realizing he cannot. The apostate observed as the elf's legs broke into a frantic dance full of kicks and bucks, then his arms joined the futile, desperate twitching. Dread and horror sunk their ethereal claws deep into Fenris as he resumed his thrashing against the hard surface, but found no release, as if he was glued to the spot or held by invisible shackles.

"It's my modification of a paralysis curse, Fenris. Don't waste your energy." The mage explained calmly.

""You!" The man growled hoarsely, an equal mix of fear and loathing spilling forth like glass shards, the muscles on his neck bulging with effort as he still resumed his attempts to get up. "You're going to pay for this, Hawke! I don't know what you think you're doing, but this time you just crossed the line."

""_This_"" Hawke venomously underlined the word. "Is your nightmares coming true, Fenris. And please…" He raised a finger in warning. "Please remember that _you_ brought _this_ upon yourself."


End file.
